


Unmade

by teejplease



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Clintasha - Freeform, Dom/sub, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Non-Linear Narrative, Oneshot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teejplease/pseuds/teejplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"</p><p>- </p><p>Natasha puts Clint back together again after the Battle of Manhattan. </p><p>(Or so she and Clint like to think.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmade

Clint knew Natasha better than most. He was unsurprised when he heard that she had made a play on Loki - and had come on top. He didn't need to see the footage. He'd seen her fool and break people everyday. 

-

She found him after. Gasping on a cot, blue still leaking from his eyes. 

"I've been compromised," she murmured like a secret - like a kill order. Something came loose inside of him. 

Clint didn't know if he was happy or sad to be interrupted by Captain America. 

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

-

They won. Despite everything, they won.

After, he and Natasha gritted their teeth and managed to eat around their new compatriots (bodies too worn to be on edge around so many new people - at least not as severely so as they usually were). 

The restaurant was battle-worn but still serviceable. His gaze settled on a divot in the table, focusing on the varying textures and colors that made the crack. 

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

He came back to the familiar feeling of her hands circling his wrist under the table - how long had he been drifting off? Her fingers tightened and he breathed out in relief. It felt like a benediction (it always did).

-

He woke up to the familiar feeling of rope tightening around him. 

In another situation, he would’ve panicked. But the air was charged with the familiar feel of her - the air displacing in a way it only did when she prowled. 

First, she bound his hands, crossing the military-grade rope over and over again. Obediently, he rolled onto his stomach - falling into the sniper silence that made him so valued. Likewise, she was quiet, too (neither made a move to his aides on the bedside table). 

She finished tying, a finger lingering for a single moment (indiscernible to most likely anyone else) at the small of his back. He closed his eyes and savored it. 

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_  
  
Too quickly her finger stopped touching his vertebrae, hands coming up quickly to jerk his head up, throat bared. Beneath her, Clint’s legs were already bending, braced against the mattress to oblige her. 

Leading him by the hair like he was a dog, she dragged him until he was kneeling on the hardwood floor. 

He was unsurprised to see she was naked, deigning to perch on his mattress with her legs splayed - like an arrogant king in his court _(like Loki)._

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

As if she knew where his thoughts had strayed, she hit him - her tiny hand fisted and not holding anything back. His ears rang as he grunted before turning back to her. 

Despite her severe expression, she was still the most beautiful thing in his apartment (this city - both sides of the hemisphere if he were to be honest. But spies aren’t employed by their ability to tell the truth). 

She arched a brow, waiting. Obediently, he bent his face forward, her powerful thighs cradling his head, legs flush against him. 

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

Usually, they would have spoken. If this was just for fun, there would have been their regular jibes and quips - the camaraderie that stretched between them no matter the assignments or rumors. But this was not like those times. This was to remind him who he was (who he still belonged to). 

Clint often said he was uneducated – a regular schmuck. But even he had heard the stories of gods and fruit. And he knew, if ambrosia tasted anything like the way she did, exactly why people had been so envious of immortals. He savored her taste in long licks, using his teeth every one in awhile to coax more from her. 

Her hands came down, pressing onto the back of his neck, massaging. 

He would never say it but he would give up a lot of things (pizza, shooting, hell, maybe even _coffee_ ) if the chance ever arose to spend the rest of his life like this: trapped by a body that had killed hundreds, his most vital parts of himself wrapped in her powerful limbs - he would die happy. 

But being between her legs was not a time for maudlin thoughts. Clint was dedicated to the task before him. 

It was not long before her calves almost imperceptibly quivered against his back.

 _(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

Her breath hitched and Clint knew - now was the time. Breaking from his leisurely pace, he began feasting upon her juices in earnest. It was a matter of moments before she came. 

A beat of silence as she brought her breathing back under control once more.

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

First, it was her arms, unwinding from his neck, then her powerful legs - graceful, even in their strain. She stood and he followed her, climbing back onto the bed once more. She undid his ropes before leaving the way she came - silent but knowing, sure of every step. The small of his back ached where her little pinkie had stroked before pulling away.

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

He imagined her stepping into her street clothes, hiding her dewy, shivering skin under unremarkable trappings. Then, a quick hand through her hair to make it land on her collar just so before she melted into the night. She left only stillness in her wake.

The rumbling, sibilant voice quieted within him, so he tried to ignore the emptiness of his home and closed his eyes. 

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

-

Knowing that he was under the control of an alien and accepting that his actions during the Battle of Manhattan weren’t his fault were two completely different things. He could see it in the hesitancy of some of his colleagues, the barely hidden contempt in others. He kept his head down and completed his work. He stuck to the vents when he wasn't due somewhere else (his modus operandi per usual in headquarters even before Loki). 

He never meant to view the footage of Loki and Natasha’s confrontation. He didn’t feel the need to.

“Look at her,” someone's voice echoed, admiration clear even though the person was more than ten feet away and in a supposedly 'secure' room. 

If that wasn’t enough to spark Clint’s curiosity, the familiar sureness in Natasha’s voice was, barely discernible but always recognizable. Clint could do nothing but crawl forward towards it - like a dog with a scent (maybe more like a man in a desert seeing an oasis).

“Is this _love_ , Agent Romanoff?” Clint was still at odds when he heard or saw anything that reminded him of Loki; the alien’s voice sent his skin crawling but also had the unfortunate effect of making Clint want to prostate himself.

“As if,” the other agent said to his colleague snidely, the two snickering as they watched the old security feed.

Clint tried to focus on the fact that the two douches were wearing shades inside headquarters and not the yawning chasm inside of him. No answer could be a good answer to a question like the one he had just heard Loki pose. 

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

“Love is for children,” Clint was unsurprised to hear Natasha’s voice so steady. “I owe him a debt.”

The two assholes he was spying on began to make lascivious remarks about Natasha and Clint (the usual stuff. He had heard worse before from people that could actually kill him) drowning out whatever was said next. 

Good, well, he was done here anyway. 

Gritting his teeth, he began moving away from the scene the two agents were too busy scrutinizing. He could still hear the buzz of Natasha’s voice – the familiar cadence when she was weaving her web. He couldn’t actually discern what words were being said but that was okay. 

He could still hear her unwavering voice in his head, _“Love is for children.”_

_(Do you know what it's like to be unmade?)_

Clint kept crawling, silent and balanced as always, no matter the situation.

\- 

"Do you know what it's like to be unmade?" thoughtlessly, he asked her. He knew the answer but he wanted to hear it from one of the few people he could be vulnerable around. 

"You know that I do," she replied, gaze steady despite the turmoil he knew that was churning inside; the truth of the matter was that Natasha had been broken over and over again - memories and body frankensteined beyond comprehension. Some days, she still woke up confused as to where she was. Some days, she could speak nothing but Russian. Some days, she could do nothing but dance.

But everyday, she had this gift; everyday, she could lie to herself and tell herself she was okay. 

It was hardly a bother for her to help Clint do the same. 

_**FIN.**_

**Author's Note:**

> Tried to write this in [secretagentclintbarton's](http://secretagentclintbarton.tumblr.com) ask box on tumblr (and kind of failed grammatically and lost some content). This version is much better but you can read the original [here](http://secretagentclintbarton.tumblr.com/post/113120474769/clint-knows-natasha-better-than-most-he-was). Still editing this version but couldn't wait to post it (what's new).
> 
> You can find my personal tumblr [here.](http://irisbloooming.tumblr.com/)


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